Even in war there is beauty.

[Restless Soul]

Even in war there is beauty. (http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2011/207/1/6/161_by_snowskadi-d37f93b.jpg)

((Currently closed to Nevermore, sorry. PM me if you are interested in a battle though.))

A bastion of battle, the Citadel of Radasanth was a place all of Althanas had grown up hearing of. Every stick swinging child and their friends pretended to be great warriors of legend, like Marshal Letho Ravenheart, conquering foes in the halls of the Ai’Bron monks. From the first time stories were told the legendary tales inspired youth to grow and spurred them towards a life of valor. Just as any other young man of Althanas, Amras was just an unknown boy looking for a place to make a name for himself. The Zirden fight club in Scara Brae, his home nation, was not big enough a stage or well known for its ability to elevate like the Citadel was. He hoped for glory and prestige, choosing the place of battle as a means to make a mark.

Unfortunately, the gloomy day meant that hardly anyone was about in Radasanth. Even the Citadel was eerily quiet. He expected much more from the capitol of Corone, much more. Scara Brae was a slow island, with small adventurers and unknown citizens carrying on their droll lives. Corone was supposed to be a mass of activity, but it seemed nothing more than a larger version of his home. The halls of the glorious Citadel were nearly empty, only a few warriors lounging about and chatting over past victories. Undaunted and full of pep, the young elven rogue made his way to the first brown-cloaked monk he saw. After a few words he was on his way, being escorted to the room that would be his battleground. Excitement quaked through his body, his heart fluttered and his breath quickened.

Walking into an illusion for the first time was riveting, as exciting as the anticipation of a first kiss. The young elf jogged into the new world, taking in the magical domain with every sense. The sky was blue and crystal clear, not a cloud to obscure the morning sun. Amras slowed to a walk as he put out his gloved hands and let his slim fingers caress the closest blades of grass. The emerald world he had entered was dripping diamonds of dew, as beautiful as any jewelry he had ever seen or stolen. A breeze slipped through the crowns of the bent trees, shaking boughs and rattling leaves. If he closed his eyes he could envision the first day of spring on the edge of Brokenthorn Forest. Even the scent of… clean permeated the warm air.

“Gorgeous,” he whispered. His booted feet continued walking down the gentle path through the serenity. Overgrown grass reached over the packed-dirt trail, budding yellow flowers stretched to touch the elven intruder as he followed the winding path. As if carried by a gentle river he smoothly found his way through the thin woods, letting his feet guide him to the foot of a set of ancient stairs. The rocks were smooth with age, worn and cracked yet fit the setting as flawlessly as the young hickory trees that bowed to either side. “So, this is the power of the Ai’Bron.”

Wonder was all he could muster, even when he sat on the stone border to the stairway. It was as firm as true stone, even a bit dusty as if Amras was the first to be in the area in centuries. Thoughts of battle, of being within the Citadel were muted by the grace of the setting. He shifted the rapier and dagger at his waist, the leather on his gloves rubbing against the stone and flecking off small chips. “Not something I’m used to,” he said with a smile, closing his eyes to bask in the sunrise's warmth as he waited an opponent.

[Nevermore]

Valerius peered through his room’s single shuttered window, an open book before him on his desk. Outside, the day promised to be dismal: storm clouds dominated the sky, fat and bloated with rain. He and the weather often played this game with each other; it would lull him into a false sense of security that, despite appearances, it was not going to rain, and then when he finally ventured forth from the dry comfort of home, the downpour would begin.

Nevertheless, it was only a question of time before boredom overcame reason.

Nearly two weeks had passed since Valerius’ last foray into the slums, where alongside the bastard swordswoman Arianna he had killed a demon, albeit not without difficulty. His father’s physician had demanded he do nothing strenuous for at least a week. Valerius hadn’t intended to anyway.

He was content to spend a few days recovering in the library, reacquainting himself with the stories and legends he so adored. Despite the other night’s victory, they reminded him that he still had so far to go, so many obstacles before he could obtain the power he lusted after. He was ready to return to the streets in pursuit of that power.

Besides, he hated these walls. They were their own sort of prison, filled with the stifling weight of his father’s worthlessness. Valerius knew what his father’s world – the world of the nobility – would do to him if he let it.

Valerius stood up abruptly, closing the dusty tome in front of him. His half-reflection in the windowpane showed his perpetual smile, wide like a crescent moon turned on its side.

Some bloodletting will get me back into the flow of things, he decided. And I know just the place.


~*~

“Not something I’m used to.”

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

Valerius sat beneath the stairway on a moss-covered stone, looking contemplative. And wet, very wet. Not quite as thoroughly soaked as he had been upon arriving to the Citadel, but still damp; as predicted, the instant he’d stepped outside the deluge had begun. After fording half a dozen newborn rivers, he’d arrived at the stronghold of the Ai’Bron monks, only to find it quite deserted. The rain had stopped shortly thereafter, while the Ai’Bron escorted him to this battlefield and responded to his many questions with eloquent non-answers that did little to dispel his doubts.

The two duelists had their backs to each other. The young nobleman wore his usual purple waistcoat and comfortable breeches. His steel short sword hung in the leather scabbard at his waist. He smiled dreamily, as he often did while in the Citadel. Sometimes Valerius wondered what the room looked like beneath its illusionary lacquer, whether the walls were the same drab stone as the hallway outside – but for once, he preferred not to know the answer. This was all a quaint fantasy, a pretty lie, but it entertained him more than reality ever could.

“I am a frequent visitor to this place. The secrets of the Ai’Bron monks fascinate me to no end, you see… I try to understand how they fashion these elaborate illusions, but it eludes me. I have seen worlds far stranger than this and far more beautiful, but for some reason, every time I take one step closer to the truth, the truth takes two steps away from me.”

He sighed exaggeratedly and stepped out from beneath the shade of the ancient staircase, still smiling. His lips formed a neat little ‘o’ of shock as he saw his opponent-to-be… or, specifically, saw his opponent’s ears.

“An elf!” he tittered excitedly. “Magnificent. An elf taught me to speak your language, you see, though I fear I never quite mastered the flowing calligraphy it calls for. Perhaps once we’re finished here you could help me shake the rust off? I’m afraid I don’t often have the pleasure of speaking with your kind.”

His lavender eyes glimmered with a strange blend of joy and cruelty. They coated the elven rogue, absorbing every detail they could, probing for a quick way to inflict pain. At the same time, Valerius took a few steps back, stopping only once he felt the rough bark of a hickory tree behind him. Hand resting on the pommel of his short sword, he twisted his body to present his side to the elf, and thus a smaller target.

He took a deep breath. One would expect the soporific perfume of spring flowers in a place like this, but no, the only smell was of the chemical cleanliness that no doubt coated every inch of the room beneath its illusionary skin.

Eyes. Ears. Throat. Spine. Back of the neck. Kidneys. Major blood vessels. Elves die just like men.

He neglected to mention that his tutor had taught him that, too.

[Restless Soul]

Amras wanted to turn to see who had spoken immediately, but with his back to his opponent he could hide his surprise. His face was streaked with doubt and worry. The last time he had joined a battle in the Citadel it had been the Mid-winter Melee. Furious fighting erupted immediately when the combatants had entered the arena, a deluge of passionate cries from the crowd and warriors alike. The young elf had been overwhelmed almost immediately; every direction had been a waiting blade. Amras had feared a blade in the back, as he did when the voice of his opponent suddenly spoke, but something felt different.

Without looking, he could tell he was fighting another young man. The voice was soft and cheerful, an eerie tone that fit the setting but not a competitor. Turning to view the source of the voice gave the elven youth pause. He was staring at a child, much bigger than Amras, but still very young. Wild blonde hair was half tamed by the water that dripped from him. Oddly he seemed very excited about meeting Amras, which further confused the elf. “I’d be glad to help,” he muttered as a response, wondering if the boy was serious or not.

There was a look about the young man that reminded Amras of friends back in Olme. He looked like Harrison, one of the few humans in his little gang. The Bastards of Olme was a small group of petty thieves, mostly elves or half-elves that hung around each other as much for comfort as protection. Harrison was on the three humans, and was much like the opponent that stood before him. About the same height, but the blonde haired boy was thinner. He didn’t have a metal rod hanging from his hip, didn’t wear haphazard amateur-ly crafted armor, and spoke far more than Harrison. Amras shrugged, he had bested his friend, what was the worry about this unknown opponent?

<”Writing the words is an art, much like swinging a sword. Some strokes are necessarily deep and blunt, while most are supposed to be subtly scripted as to be barely noticed. I find the common words… grating in comparison”> Amras’ elven tongue was as smooth as silk and as delicate as a freshly blossomed flower. He had learned his ancestral language from his father, but it had been his mother that had taught him the grace behind it. As with warfare, his father had taught him the sword, but his mother had instructed him in the use of his slim rapier. <”I am Amras Fletcher, it is a pleasure to meet you in combat.”>

For a Citadel fight, things seemed to have taken a turn towards a courtly dance rather than a bloody fight. He stepped back and remembered the form his father, Locien, had taught him. His body was turned to give a minimal target while he placed his right hand on the pommel of his sword. Training in the sword extended no further from his father. Whatever he had taught his son had been about honor and duty, about standing with shield forward and weapon readied. Amras did not use a shield though; the bulky device was a distraction as much as it was a boon. Instead he relied on his mothers lessons about dexterity and his own experience as a fleet-footed thief.

The two children stood across from each other, both readied for combat but neither moving. Amras dug the tip of his front boot into the dirt. He smiled and nodded to the other boy, drawing his blade. The long, thin steel glimmered in the faux sunlight, waking with a stretch towards its newest victim. It was a beautiful day for a fight, even if it was just an illusion. The elven thief had practiced many things since coming to Radasanth from Olme, among them had been all his dexterity skills but sword-fighting had not been amidst the list.

[Nevermore]

The lordling nodded to himself as Amras spoke. <“Valerius. The pleasure is all mine, I promise you.”>

He waited for a moment as Amras unsheathed his blade. Valerius had sparred with a rapier a few times during his tutelage under one of his father’s friends. They were designed for quick, abrupt thrusts, hence why the Raschael had positioned himself in front of a tree, but it did not seem like the elf was willing to begin the first exchange.

His own sword was a few inches shorter, but Valerius could nearly tuck the older boy beneath his chin. That meant he could probably overpower the elf if it became a contest of strength, but even a cursory glance would show that, meaning Amras would probably end up relying on his adroitness…

His smile intensified and he laughed, a sound full of mirth, despite the fact that his life could end at a moment’s notice if he had misjudged his opponent. <“Your blade’s craftsmanship is… exquisite,”> he said, painfully aware of his own accent. A shame he couldn’t have met the elf under other circumstances. It seemed like the most interesting people had a tendency to die as soon as he met them.

Alas… the show must go on.

Believing that he had sated any sense of duelist etiquette with this short opening reprieve, Valerius ceased his mindless badinage. Instead, he rushed forward with an alacrity that he hoped would catch his elven playmate off guard. Once he stood just outside the rapier’s range, he bent his left knee, keeping the right slanted, and slid his own blade from its scabbard with a rasping hiss of steel on leather. He brought it up immediately so that the last few inches of the short sword would cleave Amras from his crotch to his throat.

Valerius had seen enough men become gurgling, bloody ruins in his lifetime that he did not need to picture the change in Amras’ appearance if he were not as light on his feet as he looked. Nevertheless, he kept his stance loose enough that he could react to the expected counterattack when it came.

The exchange helped accentuate the imaginary nature of their battlefield. Valerius’ father often went hunting in Concordia prior to the death of his wife. If so much as a twig snapped at an inopportune moment, it would send dozens of fat pigeons squawking into the skies above, not to mention whatever game was in your sights.

Yet their arena remained eerily quiet. He heard no shrill cicada call from amidst the glistening grass; Te branches twitched and the leaves rustled, but he felt no cool breeze on his brow; he saw no wildlife to lend authenticity to the forest around them.It was as if they had stepped into a painting - a pretty painting, to be sure, but no art no matter how detailed could ever be more than an imitation of life.

[Restless Soul]

Amras did not know if it was common courtesy or mere inexperience that made him stay his blade and carefully wait for the other boy. Fighting in a controlled setting was an abstract concept. Years of combat had come in the form of bar-room scuffles, random street-gang brawls, and a massive free-for-all a week past. Standing face-to-face with a single opponent, on similar grounds and with similar purpose was new. He enjoyed the romantic idea of single combat, and even found freedom from concerning himself about being wounded pleasing. He looked at the situation he had placed himself in though, it was an awkward one. There was no way to relate the underlying feeling of excitement or the blithe reprieve from reality to any incident he had put himself into in the past.

The motion of Valerius almost caught Amras off-guard. He watched as the weight of the human shifted ever so slightly. It was just enough to realize the muscles were tensed and readied. The courtly elegance of the initial salutation was tossed aside like a used handkerchief. The whispered greeting of the short-sword leaving its sheath caught sharp elven ears. In the split-second it took for the blade to reach towards the chest of the elf, he could see the first glimmer of his disadvantaged position. Valerius was faster than anticipated; coupled with his size advantage the thought of wielding nimble steps and quick counters was pushed aside. His thin rapier would be no use in blocking and deflecting such quick strikes would be a feat as well.

Amras reacted quickly with a smooth step backwards. His rear foot found the base of the stone wall. It was just enough room to avoid the tip of the short-sword and spare him from pain, as well as the embarrassment of being felled by the first swipe of either blade. As the steel blade passed, the elven thief reacted. He pushed off the wall and lunged with his own weapon. The steel rapier jolted forward like a lightning bolt. It was a feint to force his opponent to react, a distraction.

He knew he would not be so lucky as to plunge the tip of his elegant weapon into the unarmored chest of the boy. Amras was new to the Citadel but he was not completely inexperienced with combat. It would take much more than a quick retort and dumb-luck to end the battle. Whether it was a euphoric surge of confidence, or his eyes playing tricks on him, it seemed as if the end of his rapier was a hairs breadth away from finding a home in the human. He had turned his head before the blade was retracted though, leaving only the peripheral vision to assist him in judging his accuracy. As light on his feet as he was, the elf was up three stairs while retracting his sword.

Tucking tail and running was not a tactic that was beneath him, but it was not the case. With his back against the border of the ancient stairway to nowhere he was nearly cornered. In haste he had chosen worn stairs instead of hopping over the edge. Leather boots scuffed a bit clumsily against the smooth stone and patches of dust, but solid stone was a surer footing than damp grass. “Higher ground.” He was looking back at his opponent, almost on eye level three slim stairs up. It was not much, but it put him on more of a level footing than he had been.